Pregnant Veg 11: Close Encounters of the Medical Kind
The pregnant vegetarian objects to medical torture. “I’m not sick, I’m pregnant!”
Well, the other shoe has dropped. I knew this was going too well. It seems that if you spend enough time in Doctors’ offices, they will find something wrong with you.
I failed the one hour diabetes test. So they made me do the three hour one. It was awful. And I failed it. I am not used to failing tests. My ego is bruised. Now I have to see a specialist and go to diabetes ed. class. It’s like having to go to remedial math class.
Now they want to talk to me about diet. In the third trimester! Bit late, in my view. If gestational diabetes is so common and such a big deal that they have to test every woman for it, why not start with prevention?
The primary method of managing gestational diabetes is dietary. What about starting every pregnancy with a nutritional consultation, so a woman can be managing her risk all along? Oh wait, that would make too much sense. Never mind. Let’s wait until week 29, and do horrible tests instead.
The diabetes tests are Cruel and Unusual Punishment. The one hour test wasn’t so bad. They fed me nasty orange sugar drink and made me wait an hour before stabbing me with a needle to get blood. Of course, they didn’t warn me it was going to take an hour, so the wait was boring as heck.
For the three hour test, I brought a couple of books. I finished one and got halfway through the other.
This test is Misery. I was allowed no food after midnight and until after the test was over the next morning. You tell a pregnant woman she’s not getting breakfast and see how well she takes it. They fed me twice as much vile orange stuff, and they stabbed me four different times to get four different vials of blood.
In between stabbings, I spent three hours in a waiting room with no place to put my feet up. Whoever designed this place, I doubt they have ever been pregnant. I ended up dragging over a nearby chair. Complain about the footprints, I dare ya! Grrr…
When they were finally done torturing me, I rushed to the nearest bagel joint for lunch. Food helped, but I still felt lousy. In fact, my mood stayed rotten for two days. Thanks guys. I would never have done something like this to myself. No breakfast, blood loss, sugar binge – sounds completely irresponsible to me. Yet in the name of medicine, this is OK?
I’m not sick, I’m pregnant. And yet I think I’ve been to the doctor more in the past six months than I have in the past 20 years.
To date, they have taken ten vials of blood and endless cups of pee. They listen to the baby’s heartbeat every time, and they have to gone to some trouble to be certain I don’t have cervical cancer. Well that was nice to know. And apparently I’m not malnourished – except now that I’m in the third trimester, I’m a wee bit anemic. Well, duh. Amazingly, the little girl I’m hosting, who is getting ready to double in size, is using up a bunch of my nutrients. I am shocked. Just shocked.
They advised iron tablets, which make you constipated, setting the stage for hemorrhoids, and other general discomfort. I bought black strap molasses. Thanks for the advice, guys.
They also weigh me every time, and assure me I’m not gaining too much or too little weight. Well, I live in this body 24-7. I’m pretty sure I could have told them that.
It seems that between me and the doctor, she is taking more comfort in all the fussing than I am. Now she wants to see me every two weeks. Ugh. Can I just call her and let her know I’m feeling fine? It would save me a trip, and I’m sure the end result would be the same – One mom, one baby, no problem.